


Of Gunpowder Tea and (W)retched Company

by aph_foreign_relations



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Arthur is a sweet boyfriend, I was practicing descriptive language, M/M, Sickfic, USUK - Freeform, alfred isn't doing well y'all, eww so domestic, so lots of adjectives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25256812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aph_foreign_relations/pseuds/aph_foreign_relations
Summary: Alfred falls ill and Arthur cares for him. That's pretty much the gist of it.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

Too sweet? Too bitter? More water, perhaps dull the taste, weaken the color?

England looked to his porcelain salvation, the item was the only thing between dead-like slumber and productivity during long nights in the lonely mansion. This night, unfortunately, was not one of those.

The dregs of his gunpowder tea sat lonesome at the base of the teacup as Arthur gazed at them, a blissful distraction from the moaning figure curled up and withering beside him in the plush comforter which practically swaddled the man.

Many a time had England attempted to drown out the pitiful whimpers to no avail, to quiet the source; sing a lullaby, provide words of comfort.

“O God, this really sucks balls.” Whispered America, his voice rasping over a worn-out throat, lining stripped by bouts of coughs and vomiting.

Alfred’s eyes were glazed over, face pale but for the unnatural tinge of his cheeks. His whole frame shook, cold sweat clung to his face and neck, the only part of him visible beneath the heavy bedding.

England was knocked out of his slight stupor, dragged back to the miserable man at his side.

“My, America, your eloquence certainly hasn't improved any.” England replied softly, placing the teacup to its saucer with a light clack!. He laid his cool hand on America’s heated forehead, checking his temperature.

America leaned into the touch, exhaling a small sound of relief. 

England observed America’s peaceful expression, sympathy swelling up in his chest. Poor boy, thought England.

If only that damn earthquake hadn't struck whilst they had been out on a rainy hike, as was the only type of hike there was in “good ol’ England”, as America put it.

By the time they had returned America had been slumped on England’s shoulder, shivering and half-delusional, muttering nonsense as he’d pushed past the entrance, England keeping him steady as he tilted this way and that.

England sighed to himself for what felt like the thousandth time this night.

Worry gnawed at his stomach, filled with dreadful outcomes. But no, the situation called for critical thinking, certainly not chaotic. Presumption bid him no good.

“O gosh,” Alfred panted, teeth pulled back in a grimace as he turned to face England,” Hate to ask, but d’you mind helpin’ me up?”

Deeming the request appertaining Author stood, knees popping as he did so, allowing Alfred to grasp his wrist as he hoisted his quivering corse out of the bed.

America laid his forehead on the elder’s shoulder, exhausted at the journey from mattress to floor.

England glanced at the man gasping at his side, his rather prominent eyebrows scrunched together in concern. “Are you able enough to make it...?”

Alfred moaned.

“... Or shall I fetch a waste bin?”

The normally bespectacled nation quirked a grin that fast ceded as the grimace made another appearance.

“Oh, darlin’, you’re far too kind to me.”


	2. Chapter 2

The pristine white-marbled restroom did not flatter the user, hunched over the toilet seat as he emptied his long-since emptied stomach, nothing but bile and spit ran down from America’s mouth. Sweat cascaded from Alfred’s skin, glistening in the artificial light as he choked and sobbed.

Arthur sat at his side, occasionally wiping at Alfred’s mouth and forehead with a cloth, murmuring platitudes he hoped to provide comfort.

This had been going on for around an hour or so now; a repetitive cycle of vomit and retch, perhaps interrupted by a few minutes break and the likely reason Alfred had not yet fainted from oxygen deprivation.

After a notable lull in the process, the glassy-eyed nation spoke:

“I-I think ’m good.” whispered America, grazing England’s thigh with his fingertips. Just as England went to confirm the statement America collapsed into him, his large figure slumping into the smaller man’s grasp.

Arthur observed Alfred as his mouth was once more swiped clean. The dazed heavy-lidded look Alfred gave him did not seem promising, nor the cheeks dyed a high red in fever. Alfred wheezed up at him, chest seizing as he attempted to catch his breath.

Arthur planted a gentle hand on Alfred's cheek, thumb petting softly under the eye. “Perhaps you’d prefer a proper bed to the tile?”

Alfred nudged his nose into the tender skin between Arthur’s thumb and index, nodding his accord followed by a small sound of approval.

Arthur began to heave both himself and America up. When America limply hung on his shoulder, Arthur was forced to use the wall as support.

“S-sorry…”, Alfred breathed into his neck, body trembling as he held some of his own on unsteady legs.

“F-fret not, dear” England muttered through a tight jaw.

They slowly maneuvered their way back to the bedroom, Arthur dropping Alfred to the bed as he wiped his own brow with a handkerchief, then bent to mop Alfred’s.

Alfred moaned, swiping Arthur’s arm aside. He closed his eyes as the room spun. His cheeks were burning and his heart pounded in his ears.

Despite the lack of substance, Alfred’s stomach felt hot and heavy and as he turned in his sheets while the nausea made a reappearance, not three minutes since his return from the restroom.

England plucked a thermometer from the nightstand and placed it upon America’s bottom lip, requesting entry.

America groaned miserably, his hands twitching as the cold mettle settled beneath an obedient tongue. They waited a moment, America breathing hotly through his nose and England grasping America’s palm, smoothing over the clammy skin.

The device beeped and England held it up, pausing to mentally convert celsius to fahrenheit, “105.3.” 

Clearing his raw throat, America’s lips formed a hesitant smirk. He fought out a “Th-that s-sounds about-t r-right” before gasping and clutching at his stomach, his spine arching painfully.

England sighed, taking a disinfectant wipe and rubbing it along the thermometer, efficiently clinical in his movements.

Placing it aside and tossing the wipe into the nearest bin, England bent across the bed to gather America into his arms, gently guiding America’s sweaty forehead to his sweater-clad shoulder.

America greedily accepted the physical comfort, winding his arms about England’s slim waist to pull at the fabric on his back and smushing his face into England's neck, inhaling the familiar scent.

England’s fingers grasped at the sheets, pulling them over the pair with a whoosh of cool air despite America’s halfhearted complaints, _he was already warm enough!_

The Englishman ignored America and reached over to turn the lamp off, the room plunged into sudden and complete darkness.


End file.
